A Stranger Left an Envelope Beside My Bed on My Sixty-Second Birthday—Then I Found His Photograph with My Son

In early November, I took three of my mother’s gold bracelets to the jeweler on Main Street.

They had been returned intact.

I had worn one only twice.

For years, keeping them had seemed like a duty, although my mother had never asked me to preserve every object she owned.

The jeweler examined the filigree and weighed the pieces.

“Are you sure, Irene?”

“Yes.”

She offered nine hundred and sixty dollars.